Saturday, June 21, 2014

Miss You Much

The screech of my father’s velcro-fastened
sneakers, scuffling across a well-waxed gymnasium floor, catches the attention
of everyone in line.

It is Election Day, and the local elementary school
is overflowing with civic-minded seniors.

Because Parkinson’s disease transformed his once
commanding stride into an unsteady, rigid gate, I insist he use a cane. But he
hates his cane more than he hates peas, and so, like a belligerent child, he
drags it behind him.

“Address please,” spouts a poll worker.

“Proof of residency,” requests another.

“Name please,” demands a third.

“Hi Roger,” murmurs a fourth.

He doesn’t mind the inefficiency or the formality.
It’s a beautiful, crisp fall day, and we are “out and about.”

“That's a sharp hat, Joe,” says Dad to a man
sporting a New York Yankees cap.

It takes Dad longer to get into the car than it
does to get to Bill’s house.

“There it is,” shouts Dad when he spots Bill's
modest home. “It’s across from the cemetery, just past the old hospital.” (Torn
down in 1951.)

I park in Bill's driveway, walk to the passenger
side of the car and open the door.

“Can’t get out,” says Dad.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Too many leaves,” insists Dad.

I kick a dusting of freshly fallen autumn leaves to
the side and, with two hands, urge Dad out of the car.

Bill is waiting on the front porch. Joan, his wife
of 52 years, peeks out from inside the front door. Just four steady steps
separate these former rivals.

“Take your time, Roger,” says Bill.

“I got it. Don’t you worry,” asserts Dad.

“Hold onto the rail,” instructs Bill.

“Help me, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

Not much has changed since Bill and his wife
settled into their home in the mid 1950’s. Pale blue, low pile acrylic
carpeting covers the living room floor. Tattered, gold-striped curtains mask
cloudy windows. A collection of knick-knacks and family portraits rest on
doilies that dot dusty tabletops.

Getting Dad in a chair can be a challenge,
especially if the seat is too low to the ground. It is more like a well-aimed
plop than a steady squat.

Once situated, Dad surveys the living room layout,
spots a matching love-seat across the room and asks, “Where are YOU
going to sit Bill?”

“I prefer to stand,“ says Bill. “Don’t you worry
about me, Roger.”

“You don’t need to sit, or you don’t want to sit?”
asks Dad.

It’s as though I’m watching a game of chess, each
attempting to outmaneuver the other.

Joan waits in the hallway, smiling. “Want a cup of
tea?” she asks me.

I can feel Dad’s eyes pleading for me to stay
close, but clearly these two need one-on-one time.

I listen as Joan talks about her ailments but
mostly she talks about Bill. She tells me about Bill’s debilitating condition.
She tells me about his time in the hospital and later in the nursing home.

“Terrible place,” she moans.

Dad also did some time in a nursing home, but I
keep this information to myself.

From the other room I can hear Dad brag about all
the things we do together. About our trips to the beach, rides to the cemetery
and watching sports. My father paints a pretty good picture. Truth is, we don’t
get “out and about” as often as we should.

“We go to the UCONN Huskies women’s basketball
games,” he tells Bill.

We've been to two games total.

“We go on the Island Beach boat a lot,” he insists,
although we missed all of last summer.

“I like a glass of wine when I’m at Shannon's
house,” he boasts. “She's a really good cook."

I have never been known for my culinary skills.

“How old are you, Roger?” asks Bill.

“What?” asks Dad.

“I said, how old are you,” repeats Bill.

“I didn't catch that,” says Dad.

“ROGER, I can’t remember how old you are!” shouts
Bill.

“I’m 84,” says Dad. He is 85.

Bill waits for my father to ask him how old he is.
My father knows that Bill is younger, so he sits in stoic silence.

“I’m going to be 83 in two weeks and they’re
throwing me a big party!” says Bill.

“Let’s go, Shannon!” shouts Dad.

And off we go.

The total time at spent at Bills is just short of
30 minutes.

“Boy, he looked old,” says Dad.

“I thought he looked great,” I tell him.

“Did he brag about his daughter?” I ask.

“Of course he did,” says Dad.

And then Dad surprises me.

“Next time, let’s bring Bill to my place,” says
Dad.

“Sounds great!” I tell him.And so, I set another date. Another play date for
Dad.

18 comments:

Beautiful, Shannon. So love your relationship with your Dad. So love his vulnerability and that you were able to witness all the many many layers of his complex personality!!!!! Reading about him reminds me of someone.....

Shannon, what a wonderful piece. I so enjoyed hearing about your father. How fortunate you are to have had him for as long as you did. I never knew my father. He was out of my life by the time I was six. I would give anything to have memories such as yours. Thanks for sharing this one.

so many wonderful memories, and much to be grateful for having such a "whatta guy!" man for a dad. I know you must miss him every single day. thanks for sharing stories like these, written with such love, humor, and irony.

much love and gentle hugs to comfort you when you are missing your dad,

Hi Shannon,This is truly beautiful. I loved reading about your dad. He sounds a little bit like mine. Thank you for writing about him and for sharing the photos too. Loving memories of our dear ones are treasures of our hearts. Sharing the "treasures" as you did here in this post, is a gift to us all.

I have thought of you often lately.. My chosen family member (Tony's ex-wife's ex brother in law... it's complicated, but we love him) just publicly announced the onset of his Parkinson's dementia. (Which means, it's been happening for a VERY long time, he now just can't hide it from everyone) I fear his independent living may be coming to an end shortly, although it is interesting...he's been secretly using the new meme TBT (Throw back Thursdays) on Facebook to post old photos to trigger his memory. I can not even begin to imagine what it would be like to forget everything that makes me, me.

I read of your adventures with your Dad... and am reminded of my dealings with my oldest sister that died back in October... but all in all, I don't have the great memories of her like I had with my Mom and Dad...

Another amazing story, Shannon. I loved it, and your relationship with your dad. Mine died at age 57 - I was denied many of the customary privileges of an aging father. So glad you had that opportunity. Liz Martin

Hi Shannon. So nice to visit your blog again. I've been on and off on my blog this year for various reasons. I enjoyed your memory of your Dad's visit to his rival. Our memories do sustain us. Hope you are feeling well.

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